


where it burns

by mundanememory



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Emotional Constipation, First Kiss, M/M, paramore the only exception dot mp3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundanememory/pseuds/mundanememory
Summary: Brady seems to think that Thomas and Colin are soulmates.Colin doesn't believe in love.Thomas puts his lips on Colin's skin and he might just convince him.(or: 5 places Thomas kisses Colin that aren't his mouth)
Relationships: Thomas Chabot/Colin White
Comments: 14
Kudos: 105





	where it burns

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely lifted from a conversation i had once with rebecca and enna; i claim no responsibility!

**one**

Brady’s high on the floor of Colin’s apartment when he says, “You two are kinda like soulmates, huh?”

Colin and Thomas, sitting on the couch beside one another, look at each other. Thomas looks amused. Colin cocks an eyebrow.

“Why’s that, Chucky?” he asks.

“Well, ‘cause like, you were born on the same day, right? And you had that World Juniors rivalry. And now you’re on the same team together. Also… I’m here.” Brady gestures at himself.

Thomas scoffs out a laugh. “Yeah, and you’re the most important part.”

“Hey man, I bring peace, love, _and_ joy everywhere I go.” Brady waggles a finger at the two of them.

“Well, I don’t believe in that stuff anyway,” Colin says with a shake of his head. He’s had a few passes of the joint, so he’s feeling honest. “Soulmates, love, whatever.”

Thomas looks at him curiously and says, “You don’t believe in love?” at the same time that Brady rolls over onto his stomach, his face bright red, and says, “Fuck, that is _so_ depressing, bro.”

Colin blows a raspberry. “It’s all kinda bullshit, don’t you think?”

Thomas purses his lips. “I dunno. I don’t think so.”

Brady gets strangely poetic when he’s high. He says, “Falling in love is like… spearing some guy who’s 220 in the nuts. It’s scary, and it’s probably gonna hurt, but there’s that… _rush _that’s like nothin’.” Colin can’t help but hiccup out a few giggles out at Brady’s description. Thomas laughs next to him, his shoulder shaking and rubbing against Colin’s. Colin feels warm where Thomas’ arm touches him.

“You’re the only one who would describe love like that, you fucking idiot,” Thomas says.

“Look.” Brady holds out his hands. “When the person I’m with kissed me for the first time it was like… I was on fire. In a good way.”

Colin’s amused, but he can’t help but roll his eyes. Brady talks a lot about whoever he’s dating but refuses to actually say who they are because _apparently_ they’re “famous”. It’s all fake, probably. Colin doesn’t believe in any of it.

They’re all a little high, so Colin expects the two of them to forget about it, but of course they don’t. 

They make kissy faces at Colin at every chance possible. Brady asks him to marry him a couple times. The team loses more often than it wins, and Thomas says, “Hey, if we ever win three in a row this season, would that be enough of a miracle to make you believe in love?”

Colin slaps the back of his head.

They just keep losing, often in dramatic fashion, and Colin is tired. He does manage to get his second goal of the year during a particularly painful 2-8 loss in Carolina, and it’s off a nifty little steal behind the net so that, at least, is good. Everyone’s pissed off and stewing in the room until Dylan stands up, puts his hands on his hips, and says, “No being grumpy about this one, boys. Who’s coming out and getting drunk with me?”

It’s warm in Raleigh and Dylan’s right, there’s no point being angry, so Colin goes along with the guys, smuggling beers over to Brady and laughing as Logan strikes out with three girls in a row.

Colin’s not drunk but he’s warm, happy and not thinking about a string of losses and another season quickly rushing toward the drain. Thomas is a mess beside Colin, and Colin thinks about him instead, the way his hair swoops back at the nape of his neck and the flush high on his forehead from the drinks. Thomas orders another round. “8 million for this, boys!” he says, mouth wet at the corners from the beer. “Could be a worse fuckin’ life, eh?”

“At least it wasn’t a shutty,” Brady slurs, slumped forward on the table.

“Thanks to this guy!” Thomas cuts in, leaning heavy against Colin. Thomas wraps his hand around Colin’s wrist, giggling, and says, “At least we’ve got a couple boys with good hands, eh Whitey?” He pulls Colin’s hand to his face and kisses the soft skin on the inside of his wrist.

It feels hot and weird and Colin jerks back as if burned. “Aw,” Thomas says, still laughing, “I forgot you’re all… anti-romance.”

“Bro,” Brady says, “let Chabs love you.”

The guys laugh and Colin grumbles, rubbing the spot on his wrist with his thumb. It’s hot to the touch. He discreetly presses the inside of his wrist to the beer glass, the condensation cooling the searing feeling on his skin.

**two**

The hit sucks. He gets slammed into the boards at an awkward angle, smushing his arm into his side painfully. It feels like the other guy weighs twice as much as Colin.

“Fuck, Whitey, you look like shit,” Logan says after the game when they’re all stripping in the locker room, wincing at the bruise purpling on Colin’s shoulder.

“Yeah, it fuckin’ stings,” Colin replies. He turns his shoulder to look at it. It’s ugly and dark, covering most of his bicep.

Thomas walks over, almost entirely naked, wet from his shower and a curious look in his eyes. Before Colin can speak, Thomas is bending down and dropping a careful but quick kiss on the bruise.

His arm burns where Thomas’ lips were. Thomas pulls away with a smile, laughing like it’s a fun cute thing for no reason at all. Colin feels like he’s been branded by a hot poker, like he’ll look down and find an angry red mark in the shape of Thomas’ mouth.

He does his best to suppress it but it gets stronger the more he tries to keep still; a full body shudder rolls through him. He curls his toes and clenches them in his socks, looking down at his feet in his slides.

He doesn’t like the feeling, the jittery hotness of being close to Thomas, his own nervousness around him.

He doesn’t mean anything by it, when it happens. He’s at home in bed half a week later, with his boxers pushed halfway down his thighs and his shirt off, just trying to get off before they leave for their next roadie. No matter how hard he tries to think about anything else, Margot Robbie or his last hookup, Colin’s thoughts circle back to Thomas, his hands and lips on Thomas’ skin, the unbearable heat of the contact.

He gets closer and can’t stop himself from thinking of Thomas, the never-smoothed swoop of his hair at the nape of his neck and the edge of nasality in his voice. He thinks about Thomas pressing his lips on his skin and lighting a flame underneath. Why is it so hot, why is it so unbearable, and why is he a slave to the feeling of it?

Colin gasps and reaches over his own body to press his fingers into the bruise, the fading but still stinging bruise on his shoulder, right over the spot where Thomas kissed him, where it burns even now. He whites out, coming over his hand and stomach, jerking helplessly through it.

On the plane, Thomas sits beside him and pulls out his iPad with a wordless smile. Halfway through the flight, he reaches over to get Colin’s attention, poking Colin’s shoulder on the bruise through his shirt. Colin nearly convulses, the burn under his skin alighting again with Thomas’ touch.

Colin jerks his arm away. “Oh, sorry,” Thomas says. “That bruise is still healing, right?”

“Something like that,” Colin murmurs.

**three**

Colin isn’t sure what to think about Thomas.

It seems like he’s always on the run. Thomas plays more minutes than anyone in the league and he never _stops_, not even off the ice. He runs on the treadmill like a horse, footfalls heavy like a drumbeat and the whir of the machine a constant hum underneath.

Sometimes it seems like Thomas doesn’t know _how _to stop. He’s still in overdrive after thirty minutes of ice time, in the locker room buzzing. He drives the pace even when the rest of them are floundering, digging his skates deep in the ice and skating even harder than before. 

But sometimes Thomas treads water in moments like they’re living in slow motion. They still lose a lot of games, even this season when everything seems to be looking up, and the locker room gets quiet some nights. Some nights there are no words, no encouragement to be shared or speeches to be given. Some nights the most they can do is promise to come back tomorrow.

They lose, again, and Colin faces into his locker as he struggles with his gear. He’s standing shirtless, leggings still on but under armor stripped off long ago, cursing himself for not being good enough. The locker room empties out fast and soon enough Colin’s alone, except for Thomas. He creeps up on Colin and stands behind him silently. Colin can feel his eyes on him as they both stand perfectly still. 

Love isn’t real, or at least it’s not a _feeling_. Love can’t possibly be physical; it’s just something people convince themselves of and choose to believe. Colin isn’t sure what he feels for Thomas: lust, probably. Whatever the feeling is, he’s lost in it, feeling for the outlines of it. If he could only define the shape of his feelings, he could define Thomas and his relationship with him.

Colin drowns in silence but Thomas swims. The moment stretches out, Thomas standing fleet-footed behind him, Colin listening to the gentle pulse of his breath. Colin isn’t expecting it when Thomas bows his head, breathes in, and places a gentle kiss at the nape of Colin’s neck, right where the bone of his spine sticks up from his skin.

Colin inhales sharply but Thomas doesn’t say anything. He exits the locker room, leaving Colin alone with his hands red and his eyes wide.

Love can’t be a feeling because love is a choice, so Colin can’t find a word to describe the burn of the spot lingering on his spine where Thomas’ lips were. It feels like a brand on his skin the entire drive home.

**four**

The Senators media team has gone all out this season with their _The Kids Are Alright_ branding, and it’s definitely a little stupid, but sometimes Colin sits back in his stall after a game nodding to himself because the kids really _are_ alright.

They get high on Brady’s floor some nights, ordering in and pretending they’re not who they are when the delivery rolls up to the door. They watch a lot of basketball, Colin’s arm under Thomas’ neck and Brady on his stomach beside them.

They go out to eat in Ottawa and on the road and sign every hat dropped in their hands. It’s flattering and fun and it’s alright as long as the food doesn’t get cold. Hotel beds are big enough for all three of them, and sometimes Brady scrambles for his phone and disappears into the hall with a dopey grin to call the still-probably-fake person he’s dating. Thomas jokes about the significant other not being real but his smile falters when Colin rolls his eyes and maintains that love in general isn’t real.

Brady comes back inside, tackles Colin, and blows a raspberry on his neck to his screeched protest, and that brings back Thomas’ smile. Colin likes it when Thomas smiles.

Colin’s happy even though they still lose most of their games. They lose 5-2 in Vancouver and it’s a back-to-back, straight into Edmonton for the Oilers the next, and Colin is sure it’s gonna be a second straight loss. All they seem to do is lose; the Vancouver game was their fifth in a row.

But then they _win_. They _win_ and it’s in convincing fashion, a 5-2 win to wash the taste of the 5-2 loss out of their mouths. They scream and celebrate more than what two points is worth in the locker room but it feels too damn good for it to be wrong.

Thomas hugs Colin and Colin can’t help but swoop Thomas up and spin him around in a circle to the sound of him yelping in surprise. They make eye contact and it’s searing. Colin blinks away and Thomas slides down his body, though they keep their arms around one another.

The whole world is only the two of them for a second. Colin stares at Thomas’ mouth, lips wet and pink and parted. He _wants_. It’s wild and intense but directionless. Colin can’t pin it down. It’s _Thomas_, pressed on him and they’re sweaty and half-dressed. It’s Thomas’ mouth and his tight narrow body. It’s the way he smells and how his breath is hot on Colin’s chin. Colin _wants_ and he _wants_ and he’s about to pin down exactly what when Thomas breaks away with a nervous laugh and turns in toward a bear hug from Brady.

Colin thinks of nothing but _want_, all the way back to the hotel, up the elevator and walking down the hall with Thomas. His body is hot with it, the _want_ for Thomas closer.

They pause by Colin’s door. “I—” Colin says, at a loss for words.

Thomas steps very slightly into Colin’s space. He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Colin’s wrist. “Whitey,” he says.

The feeling is hot and angry in Colin’s chest. The floor feels like it might fall out from under him. He’s confused in the moment and his wrist _sears_ where Thomas is touching him and he’s stuck between wanting the feeling _everywhere_ and not being able bear it another second longer.

He steps back with a coughed, “Good game tonight, bud,” and unlocks the hotel door, closing it behind himself.

_Fuck_.

He stands, grimacing, for a moment on the other side of the door. He rests his hand on the wood. He looks at his wrist half-expecting a burn mark around it. Unsure what he’s thinking or why he’s doing it, Colin reaches for the door knob.

He opens the door but Thomas is on the other side with his fist up as if to knock, eyebrows pulled in and lips pinched together.

“Chab—”

“Whitey,” Thomas interrupts, pushing into the room and knocking into Colin, grabbing Colin’s waist and walking him backward, all the way until the insides of Colin’s knees hit the bed.

Thomas bites Colin’s ear lightly. Colin bucks his hips forward and reaches around to press a hand on the small of Thomas’ back. He isn’t sure what’s happening, but it almost feels like a long time coming. “Can we please…” Thomas says, pressing Colin further back, so far against the bed that it’s about to knock Colin’s knees out from under him. “I want…”

Thomas sounds really French right now, his voice and his breath right in Colin’s ear. Colin feels himself chub up in his dress pants. He _wants_. He wants, just like Thomas. “Y-yeah,” he stutters back. He presses his hips against Thomas’ to find him half-hard, too. His ear is burning; his whole head and face feel hot with the proximity to Thomas.

Thomas makes a small little grunted noise in the back of his throat, an aborted syllable, and then he’s pushing Colin flat on his back onto the bed and tumbling forward with him so he’s lying on top of him. Colin feels like he’s been lit aflame. 

He stares up at Thomas for a silent heavy moment. They’re both breathing hard and neither move. Then, Colin wets his lower lip and jerks his chin down in a nod, and Thomas melts into him. He presses his face into Colin’s neck and kisses a spot low on his collarbone. Colin gasps; Thomas’ mouth feels unbearably hot on his skin, burning a mark right into his flesh.

He fists Thomas’ dress shirt, clutching handfuls of it in his shirt and pulling Thomas closer as he bucks his hips up against his, yanking it free from his pants as they grind against each other. Thomas is just as hard as Colin in his pants and the friction is not nearly enough but somehow too much at the same time.

Thomas rolls his hips down insistently, rocking their dicks together as he sucks a mark onto his collarbone. He murmurs something against Colin’s skin, and Colin mumbles out a “Huh?”. When Thomas says something else, still grinding down onto Colin and working a purple bruise on his collarbone, only then does Colin realize he’s speaking French.

Colin says, “Ah, ah, Chabby,” because he’s good with words like that, his dick pressing hard into his zipper, and Thomas says something else in French, something where the only thing Colin can understand is an accented “Whitey”, and Colin comes in his pants. 

He grabs Thomas’ narrow waist as his boxers get wet and tacky, and Thomas only ruts down a few more times before he goes still and boneless on top of him.

After a silent moment, Thomas gets up, red in the face. He clears his throat. “Good game to you too, Whitey,” he mumbles before stumbling out of the room into the hall.

**five**

It’s New Year’s Eve and the smell of champagne permeates the air. They’re at Mark’s house, packed wall to wall, bodies hot even in the middle of an Ottawan winter night.

Colin’s properly drunk, not quite sloppy but on his way. The problem is the old guys think they could ever possibly be better at stack cup than a BC dropout. Someone, preferably the BC dropout himself, has to prove them wrong.

Colin’s a friendly drunk and Brady floats on the tenuous line between horny and weepy drunk, so by the end of the night they’re curled up on the couch looking at videos of dogs with jobs. Thomas, a quiet, touchy drunk, ambles over and plops down beside them, looping his arms around Colin’s shoulders with his legs swung into his lap to better see the screen.

“You’re warm,” Colin says, wrapping an arm around Thomas’ midsection without thinking. Thomas makes a soft noise in his throat and wiggles in closer.

“Aww, I love you guys, did you know that?” Brady says, loud and slurry.

“I love you, Chucky,” Colin says.

“No,” Thomas protests, kneading his feet into Colin’s thigh. “I thought you didn’t believe in love.”

“Oh, I.” Colin’s too drunk for this. Across the room, it sounds like the countdown is starting. The three of them stand, Thomas still with an arm looped around Colin’s shoulder and one of Colin’s hands lazily on Thomas’ stomach.

“But you’re _Chabby_,” Brady says before Colin’s brain can come up with something intelligent. “Normal rules don’t apply for Whitey when it comes to you.” Brady grins and leans past Colin, clapping his hands on Thomas’ face to press a fat wet kiss on his forehead. “I want… another shot. Happy new year.”

He tumbles away and leaves Colin and Thomas alone. Not alone, because they’re surrounded by people, but alone the way they’re always sort of alone together when in a group. Thomas isn’t touching Colin anymore, the two of them slipped apart, but they’re right in one another’s space.

“Almost the new year, Whitey,” Thomas says quietly. Colin’s not sure why he can still hear Thomas over the noise of the party, but he thinks he’s always been a touch more attuned to Thomas than he is to the rest of the world.

The room shakes with chanting: “—SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE, HAPPY NEW YEAR!” and the room _explodes_, confetti and cheering and lights flashing.

There’s confetti in Colin’s eye and Thomas is wavering in the glittery lights of the party. He leans into Colin, drunk and pink around his eyes. Colin doesn’t—can’t—move, stuck to the spot as Thomas bends into his space. The heat of the room is sweltering; it feels like a sauna.

Thomas is close enough that Colin can taste the champagne on his breath. Colin watches the flutter of his eyelashes. For a moment neither of them move, Colin still stuck to the spot and Thomas’ bright eyes looking like a question. The room swells with energy but they stand still as stones. Thomas sways and Colin is _sure_ they’re about to kiss properly, but their noses brush past one another and Thomas presses a wet kiss right to the corner of Colin’s mouth.

The kiss tastes like champagne and the air smells like candles. Thomas feels hot, physically hot like a burning flame against Colin, and his eyes are still asking a question.

**+**

They fall and slip unceremoniously into the new year, losing a series of games all in a row. Two losses before the new year snowball into a streak of nine, and almost all of them at home, too.

In Detroit, before loss six in a row, Colin lies on the floor of Thomas’ hotel room and neither of them say anything. They don’t talk about New Year’s and they _definitely_ don’t talk about the night in Edmonton.

All hotel rooms look the same at some point. Colin thinks that if he were to lie beside Thomas, the bedspread would feel the same underneath him as the one in Edmonton did under his back with Thomas on top of him. If Thomas were to kiss his neck again until Colin came in his pants, the shower would feel the same afterward, water too hot and thighs sticky. Thomas whispering his name halfway through a sentence of French would sound the same in the cramped room.

“What’re you thinking about?” Thomas asks.

Colin has no fucking clue. His brain does stupid things when Thomas is around.

“I dunno,” he says honestly. “What about you?”

“Just how much I don’t wanna fuckin’ lose again tonight.” Thomas rolls onto his stomach to look at Colin on the floor.

Colin feels a little dumb for thinking about getting off in Edmonton now that he knows Thomas was thinking about important serious things about their team. But Colin doesn’t want to keep losing, either. It’s easy to distract himself with the small, soft things, the intangible shape of Thomas in his mind, so he doesn’t have to think about the heavy and non-moving _L5_ in the team’s streak column.

The team digs its way further into the basement but when Colin thinks about Thomas he’s in the clouds, warm from the rays of the sun.

Colin’s always felt lust in the pit of his gut but the feeling of Thomas is heat dancing over the surface of his skin. He still can’t put a name to the feeling, the unbearable fever.

Back in Ottawa before the game against Vegas, Brady says, “Can we please not lose tonight? Mark’s already making me buy dinner for him since he let me live with him.” But they lose 4-2 and the streak ticks to _L9_. After the game in the locker room, even Brady’s lost for words. He disappears fast and Colin walks silently with Thomas out to the parking garage. They stand side by side and Thomas puts a hand on Colin’s shoulder.

Warmth seeps into his arm, even in the January air. The bruise that was there is healed by now. “Good night, Whitey,” Thomas says.

Two nights later before the game against Calgary, Brady says, “Can we please win tonight? I’m so fucking sick of losing to Matt.”

Seems like the whole team is fucking sick of losing, so they win 5-2 like they’re one of the best teams in the league. The feeling of going into the All Star break off a win instead of a ten game losing streak is a high like nothing else. Mark hugs them all one by one as they rush into the locker room yelling and celebrating.

When Colin lumbers in, legs and ankles tired but feeling like he’s walking on air anyway, Mark scoops him into his arms with a yelled, “Whitey!”

Colin laughs and yells, “Boro! I fuckin’ love this team! I love ya!”

Brady screams and tackles him out of Mark’s arms, yelling, “Whitey you legend! I love you!”

He’s nearly knocked off his feet, and they spin further into the locker room. He slaps Brady’s back and says, “I love ya, Chucky!” and as he speaks, Brady letting him slip out of his arms, he spins and finds himself tumbling right into Thomas’ arms.

Still on the high, Colin hugs him, presses his face into his neck, and says, “I love you, Chabby!”

He’s halfway through saying it when he realizes the words on his lips and his enthusiasm wavers. He pulls back, feeling weird about what he’s saying. Thomas is staring at his face, not in his eyes but rather at the drip of sweat on his nose and his parted lips where the words are slipping out.

Their arms are still around each other, and Colin feels the burn spread from where Thomas’ palms are on his elbows up into his chest and neck. Colin’s heart burns.

“Come home with me?” Thomas says. When he speaks, it’s like they’re the only two people in the whole locker room. In the whole world, maybe.

Colin nods wordlessly even though he’s not sure why, letting himself slip out of Thomas’ arms so he can fall back into his own stall and undress. His socks and his pads are too hot and too tight, suffocating him. He feels like he can’t breathe when he’s around Thomas but for some reason he also feels like he doesn’t even need to.

Thomas’ apartment is small and lonely in a corner of the suburbs. Now they really are the only two people in the whole world, four socked feet sliding on the dustless hardwood of Thomas’ kitchen. Colin’s spent hours in this apartment, hanging around and smoking and gaming on off days, but never like this, never so silent that Colin can hear the hum of the refrigerator in time with the buzz under his own skin.

“D’you want something?” Thomas asks. Colin looks at him emptily. He doesn’t know what he wants. Well. Maybe he does. “Water, or anything?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Colin replies, understanding.

Two glasses, filled with water from Thomas’ refrigerator. Thomas’s back is strong and his waist is narrow and his hair doesn’t sit flat at the back. Colin wants to touch the swooping wave of it.

“Do you really not believe in love?” Thomas asks abruptly as he passes off the glass.

“Um.” Colin doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what love is and he doesn’t know if he thinks it exists beyond people convincing themselves it does. But maybe love is the convincing. Colin pushes his glass aside with a sudden, jerking motion; it slides on the marble and Thomas looks at him with a questioning gaze. 

Colin wonders what he’s waiting for. He bends in to kiss Thomas square on his mouth. Thomas makes a surprised noise but kisses back enthusiastically. It’s wet and hot on Colin’s lips. He gets his arms around Thomas’ neck, letting his fingers touch the swoop of his hair right at the nape of his neck. Thomas shivers against him and opens his mouth into the kiss.

Thomas’ hands are on Colin’s chest and Colin’s tongue is in Thomas’ mouth. Colin feels like he’s wanted to do this for a long time, like he’s not sure why he never did it before. They only pull away when they can’t breathe. Colin gasps for air and slides back from Thomas, looking at his flushed neck and the way his shirt has been tugged just slightly askew at the collar.

He burns all over, from his mouth to the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. The heat is persistent and growing, taking over his senses.

“I don’t _love_ you, Chabby, but you make me feel…” he spreads his fingers as if to demonstrate the enormity of the feeling underneath his skin, “…like I’m burning.”

“Yeah?” Thomas reaches out to brush his thumb along Colin’s bottom lip. He cups Colin’s face and kisses him again, sweet and lingering. “Me too.”

Colin kisses him a third time. He holds Thomas’ waist in his hands and presses their bodies together, along all their planes, all the places where it burns. The world falls away and Thomas’ kitchen is the only place that exists, warm and safe, refrigerator still humming.

Thomas kisses the corner of Colin’s mouth. “I don’t love you, Whitey,” he says. He kisses Colin’s neck. He kisses his shoulder. “But I think I could.”

And Colin likes the sound of that. He runs a hand down Thomas’ arm and encircles his wrist in his fingers, pulling it to his face and kissing the skin on the inside gently. “I don’t know if I believe in love,” he says. “But I think I could.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!
> 
> why do they have basically no fic? what are we supposed to do? just rewatch that one video where chabs cant stop talking about whitey and then cry about it? because thats what im doing now and its not productive.
> 
> much love <3


End file.
